


Seven

by deathofaraven



Series: Prompt Responses [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Prompt Response, Seven Deadly Sins, seven ficlets in a trenchcoat pretending to be a single one shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 22:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16880460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: (aka "these boys are so in love but so friggen' petty")They won’t last for long. But he’s too content with what he has now to care.





	Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Bringing this over from Tumblr. I do hope you're not getting tired of me...I've got at least half a dozen Sheriarty/Jimlock projects I've started working on. I'd hate to wear you out too soon.
> 
> (Tell me if any tags/warnings need to be added or if the rating needs adjusting.)  
>  
> 
> \---  
> Prompt: currently-jimlockd's "Sheriarty fic prompt #11The Seven Deadly Sins"

**Envy _(n:_** **_a feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone else's possessions, qualities, or luck)_ **

He can feel Jim’s simmering resentment from across the flat every time a case captures Sherlock’s interest for too long. It’s not directed at him, never _really_ at him. Always the case for daring to steal his attention away. But it amuses him nonetheless. He’d drop the case if only Jim had something interesting planned at that moment; they both know it, too. The person behind the crimes is secondary to Sherlock, the work is the priority. He can’t help but remind Jim of that. A dry _you don’t need to be jealous_ directed at him from over his tea cup. The indignant spluttering and outraged _I’m **not** jealous, Sherlock; I’m **never** jealous_ thrown right back.

But he is. It’s both thrilling and a bit concerning...if only sometimes. It hangs an invisible clock over the case; glowing letters proclaiming “Time Remaining Until James Moriarty Loses His Patience”. He never _really_ knows how fast the clock is running. Sometimes it’s already run out when he becomes aware of it. But it makes him work faster. Check leads he’d previously thought were untenable. Rush with a speed that isn’t entirely elegant, but _is_ exhilarating. Because when that clock runs out, he knows what he’ll find: either his suspect will suddenly be in custody or his clients will abruptly have everything back to rights or the criminal he’s hunting will be dead. It happens _every. Single. Time_.

“Was that _really_ necessary?” he asks on occasion, when the annoyance at not getting a fulfilling conclusion to a case finally begins to boil over.

 _Yes_ , Jim’s expression always says, pinning him with the weight of just how much he wants him for _only_ himself. How much it _bothers him_ that _other people_ —boring, ordinary _people_ —can elicit the same fascination and drive from Sherlock that he can. But his response is always carefully dismissive: “Solve it faster next time.”

No, he’s not jealous _at all_.

\---

 **Wrath _(n:_** **_extreme anger; chiefly used for […] rhetorical effect)_ **

If Sherlock had to say which of them had the worse temper, he would have instinctively said it was Jim. It didn’t take much to get him shouting and furious, usually all it took was a phone call. Sherlock was also aware this claim was a _lie_. Jim’s anger was like a flash-fire. It burned brightly for a second and consumed itself in the next. It took _effort_ to keep him angry.

On the other hand, Sherlock’s anger was a slow-acting venom. The initial prick of ire did nothing to him, not really. But it would build, slowly and softly, with every little thing that tried his patience. Cold and bitter. It filled him until he could feel it pressing against his every sense. Until something set it off and it spilled forth in sharp, cutting remarks that absolutely no one he knows is willing to tolerate. When it’s gone, he’s left with nothing but the lagging ache of emotional exhaustion and an acidic aftertaste in the back of his throat.

The worst part is that their anger, opposites though they might seem at first glance, tends to feed each other. He knows perfectly well it’s only a matter of time before one of them decides they care more about _being right_ than anything else. Before an argument sparks out of control. _Everything_ burns given enough time.

\---

 **Sloth _(n:_** **_reluctance to work or make an effort; laziness; apathy)_ **

Boredom had the horrific ability to sap him of energy until he was lethargic but for the annoying screaming of his thoughts. Sherlock considered it good graces that he managed to make it to the sofa before starting his sulking. Staring at the wall as the hours _tick-tock, tick-tock_ away as he tried to ignore the nagging thought that he was just being lazy. He _wasn’t_ lazy. The criminal classes’ inability to give him something fulfilling to do was _clearly_ the problem. He’d begun to formulate arguments and counter-arguments for why they _should_ put his interests first when he finally saw the clock. Well after noon and he’d still seen no sign of his...his.... He tried to think of an accurate descriptor. _Jim_. No sign of Jim. It was odd enough to pull him to his feet.

The flat was as consumed by torpor as he had been. Silent and stagnant. He wandered about before, abruptly suspicious, he headed up to the bedroom—sure enough, he instantly spotted the tell-tale mass of messy, dark hair poking out from beneath the covers.

“Jim?” At the lack of response, he stepped inside and added, “James, you haven’t had the bad manners to _die_ , have you?”

“Táim i mo chodladh,” came an awkward, half-conscious mumble. The blankets shifted slightly. Sherlock decided to take that, whatever it was, as an unfortunate _no_.

He crept further into the room, dressing gown tangling about his ankles.

“ _Táim_ —” Jim began, less sleepy and more like ‘fuck off’, only to cut himself off as Sherlock dropped down into bed beside him. He was rewarded with a plaintive: “ _No_.”

“London’s criminals have once again proven to be utter failures. I need you to _get out_ of bed,” Sherlock declared, watching for any sign that Jim had heard him. All he could see of his face at this angle was the curve of his cheek...which told him very little. He decided to try it again. “Did you hear me? I _need_ stimulation.”

“Then _hire_ _someone_ like the rest of us!”

He paused. “ _Why_ would I hire someone when I have _you_?”

“Ugh,” Jim scoffed. “ _Me_.” He rolled further over and dragged the blankets the rest of the way over his head.

They didn’t move from that spot for the rest of the day.

\---

 **Lust _(n: a passionate sexual desire for something; theologically:_** **_a sensual appetite regarded as sinful)_ **

“I don’t care for sex.” It was one of the first things Sherlock had told him when their relationship had taken an abrupt tumble into the physical category. He’d meant it as a matter-of-fact statement. Instead it had come out in a half-panted breath as his hips rocked against him.

“Tell me to stop,” Jim had challenged, almost flippantly, lavishing his neck with alternating kisses and bites.

The problem was that he didn’t _want_ to. In a storage room where anyone could walk in, his first concern should have been exactly that—someone coming across them. Instead, he was more frustrated by the stupid-amount of layers they were both wearing. Preoccupied by the thought of whether or not Jim’s obvious oral fixation could be exploited. Eager enough to reach down and tangle his fingers in Jim’s tie, dragging him closer. _Closer_. Until there was nothing between them but heat and panted moans and the feeling that they might shatter to pieces at any moment.

“I thought you didn’t care for sex,” Jim had said afterwards. Both of them dishevelled messes and neither making much effort to look more presentable.

“I don’t care for _you_ ,” Sherlock replied instead of truly answering, earning a laugh. He told himself it wouldn't happen again. But it did; it always did.

\---

 **Gluttony _(n:_** **_habitual greed or excess in eating; insatiability; biblically: over-indulgence)_ **

From an emotional standpoint, he doesn’t understand Jim’s obsession with “more”. He understands the need to prove himself, for drama, for power, even for status. But the concept of “more” is vague and meaningless for it. What good is “more”? Especially to Jim? It didn’t fulfil any bodily needs, it didn’t keep him entertained. For all of his collecting, for all the necessity of “more”, it’s never seemed to make him happy. If anything, the more Jim has, the more it seems to drag him down. “More”, Sherlock thinks, is a slow death in a golden tomb.

But Jim doesn’t seem able to stop, either. He’d seemed like a magpie in its nest when they’d first met. Now he was more like a fairy-tale dragon, hoarding people, resources, and secrets. More and more. And Sherlock’s uncomfortably aware that it’ll never be enough.

\---

 **Greed _(n: i_** **_ntense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food; avarice)_ **

It was almost six months in, after a long string of strange circumstances had somehow found them both in New York, that Sherlock had found the question intolerable to hold back any longer.

They’d both laid there, tangled in the bedsheets, with the night-time glow of the city’s lights pouring in through the penthouse windows. He’d stared up at Jim’s shadowed form, studying him as though he’d vanish if he looked away. And yet, inside, everything was oddly quiet. A strange peace that he’d never experienced before. Just existing, nothing more than that. “What do you _really_ want?”

The question had been nagging at him for a while now. The understanding that he didn’t know something important; something he should know. At the same time, he didn’t expect an answer.

But Jim didn’t mock him for it. Just laid there, tracing the faint scars of track marks on Sherlock’s forearm, and finally said, “Everything.”

Sherlock immediately felt the urge to protest. Acquiring everything was impossible for too many reasons to count. Besides, there were a lot of useless things in the world. _Surely_ Jim didn’t want to waste his time with those, as well. But...the answer had been genuine. Simply stated. He thought back to impossible dreams of his own and the appeal of piracy that had never really faded. He swallowed the protest and, instead, enquired, “What will you do with it?”

He could feel the smile in Jim’s voice as he replied: “ _Everything_.”

\---

 **Pride _(n:_** **_a feeling or deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements; the quality of having an excessively high opinion of oneself or one's importance)_ **

This would be what killed them. He knows it without any doubt or hesitation. Their egos are too grand and too fragile to stand firm against a fall. They shatter like glass; crumble to grit beneath his fingers. They won’t last. They’ve already proven that every time one of them has toed the line of “a bit too far”. When Sherlock resorts to stubbornly ignoring him and Jim has outright left the country to avoid _him_. When they haven’t spoken in months over a single slight. (Molly called them children once, tired and fed up; both of them were inclined to agree with her if not for the fact that they’d have to say it aloud.)

Still, Sherlock knows they can’t really break the cycle. There’s always _something_ the other has done to make up for it—even if it takes a while to acknowledge it. They won’t necessarily discuss what went wrong, but, one morning, things will _feel_ different. The storm will have broken. He’ll see inspiration in Jim’s smallest of habits. He’ll find Jim watching him with open fascination. Within the next few days, he’ll get a text “Do you like my present? -Jim xxxx.” and the case will be all he can focus on for the next week. The game _will_ go on. And everything will be in its proper order. He doesn’t think it’s healthy, but he won’t walk away.

They won’t last for long. But he’s too content with what he has now to care.


End file.
